Chapter 5 - THE CORRIDOR OF FIREThe gunfire was deafening in the enclosed, sterile hallway.
Bang. Bang-bang.
Two of Dante’s bodyguards, stationed near the stairwell doors, returned fire instantly, their suppressed weapons emitting a rhythmic, metallic thip-thip-thip that tore through the drywall. Plaster rained down like snow. Shouts echoed—sharp, tactical, professional military commands barked in the dark.
Elena pressed herself against the side of the trauma bed, shielding little Chloe with her own body. The little girl whimpered, burying her face in Elena’s sleeve.
"Keep your eyes closed, sweetheart. Look at me, just look at my face," Elena whispered fiercely, ignoring the smell of cordite and burning gunpowder drifting into the room.
Dante didn't flinch. He crouched near the doorframe, his weapon extended, his breathing slow and measured. He wasn't a panicked father anymore; he was a apex predator defending his den.
Click.
A tactical flashbang grenade came sliding across the linoleum floor of the hallway, spinning right toward the open door of Trauma Bay Two.
"Flashbang!" Dante roared.
He lunged forward, grabbed the grenade off the floor with one gloved hand, and hurled it back out into the corridor just as it detonated with a blinding, ear-splitting CRACK that shook the entire wing. A scream of agony echoed from the hallway as the attackers paid the price for their own trap.
"Marcus! Status!" Dante barked into his lapel radio.
"West stairwell is breached, Boss!" Marcus’s voice crackled through the static, punctuated by the sound of a shotgun blast. "They've got heavy armor! We can't hold the choke point for more than two minutes!"
Dante cursed under his breath. He turned back into the room, his eyes locking onto Elena.
"We have to move her," Dante said, holstering his weapon for a fraction of a second to lift the portable IV pole. "The ventilation shaft in the supply closet leads to the old laundry annex. It's our only way out before they gas the floor."
"I can't move her yet!" Elena argued, pointing at the surgical drain attached to Chloe's side. "Her stitches will rupture! She'll bleed out in thirty seconds!"
"If we stay here, she dies in five seconds from a bullet!" Dante yelled, his composure cracking for the first time as he reached down and scooped his daughter into his arms, wrapping her securely against his chest.
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Elena stared at him—at the raw, desperate terror hidden behind the facade of the cold mafia boss—and made her choice. She ripped the IV tape free, clamped the line, and grabbed a trauma pack.
"Move!" she shouted.
